Endings, Linda Richards [desktop ebook reader .txt] 📗

I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but I think it can’t have been that long because no light comes in the window. Unless there’s been a full circle of the sun since I lost consciousness, but I don’t think so.

Even though it’s you-can’t-see-the-hand-in-front-of-your-face dark, I know I am on a bed. I feel the give of a musty mattress and warmth from a surface that absorbs heat rather than reflecting it back.

Despite everything, though, and against all reason, I know I am not alone. There is another presence in the room. I can’t see anything and I don’t hear any telltale signs. But I know.

I lie there silently for a slot of time that feels longer than it could possibly be. Five minutes? Less. I lie there, feeling the darkness. Reaching into it with my mind and my ears. Even while I wonder how it’s possible, I know what I know and I keep my breathing deep and even, understanding instinctively that a change in my state will tip my hand.

I remember then and I wonder about the dog. My heart fills with concern for him. And then I remember to be concerned, also, for myself. It’s then that I hear the slight and even breathing of another creature. Another human, I’m certain. But so quiet, it almost isn’t there.

I think about my options, willing myself to remain calm. I am still breathing long and slow, conscious not to alter my outside state. Inside, though, I am seething with questions and the beginnings of plans. It is my nature to plan. To question. Without that, I know instinctively, I am lost.

I wonder if I am tethered. To test it, I pull ever so slightly on my hands and feet. Somehow that small movement alerts him.

“You’re awake.” The voice reaches into the darkness. It is so quiet; I must strain to hear. It is modulated for the middle of the night and I wonder if he knew I was awake before he heard something, or if he just got tired of watching and waiting.

“The dog. Is he okay?” I surprise myself by having this be the first thing I say. I didn’t even know I really liked the dog very much, and here I am asking about him. Which sort of figures somehow, when I think about it.

“Sure. He’s fine.” I hear the sound of a foot connecting with fur-padded flesh. I hear a yelp. “See?” I tell myself not to ask about the dog again.

“I could tell you were awake by your breathing. Isn’t it funny how we always can?”

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I croak, fighting for composure. Fighting to sound strong and unafraid.

He laughs, like we’re at a cocktail party and I’ve told a funny joke. I am not unbiased, but the mirth seems to have an unhealthy sound.

“It’s fate, I think. You and I, we have things to talk about, don’t we?”

“I … I wasn’t aware.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“Sorry?”

“You know.” He sounds confident. “You know we have things to talk about.”

I take a deep breath. Send calming energy to my limbs. When I think about it, I do know what he means. The stuff we’d talked about in the RV. But then he had been bound, in my power, under my influence. Things are different now.

As though to illustrate this thought, he turns on the light. Backlit above me, haloed by the room’s overhead light, his face seems larger than life. Something out of a nightmare or a horror movie. My fear had been passive and general before. It gallops away like a wild thing now.

“You look so frightened.”

His voice is soft. A caress. And my blood slows. I can feel it creeping through my veins. I have researched him. Have seen his handiwork. The only thing I feel for certain: this situation that we are currently in, he and I? It does not end well. For me. I’ve seen photographic evidence of the outcomes of similar situations. There is no upside to hope for.

“It would be dumb for me not to be frightened; don’t you think?” The words themselves are confident. But the delivery is not. I can hear the shake in my own voice. Leaf in wind. It has no strength, and the resilience? It is sapped away. I am as afraid as I have ever been in my life. Though I am not afraid to die. I am afraid of what he will do to me between now and the time that he kills me. I am afraid I won’t die soon enough.

He smiles then. And again, that smile is warm, almost loving. A part of me wants to cry, to scream. But I don’t. I know that, if I am to survive, I have to get to a different place. What makes this more difficult is knowing that, even if I achieve that higher ground, it might not gain anything for me. In the end.

“Are you afraid?” I ask, pleased when my voice sounds stronger than it felt when it was inside me, before it emerged into the air.

He looks at me. Cocks his head to one side, as though he is listening. As though he is a big, bloodthirsty dog. I can almost see his fangs.

“Me? Why would I be afraid? I’m standing. You are in my power.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” he affirms. “Quite.”

I try to analyze his expression, because it’s a new one to me. It is one part righteous indignation, one part puzzlement, one part frightened child. I’ve hit a nerve, but I don’t allow hope. I have a long way to go.

I close my eyes, force stillness, force peace. It is one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I want to cry and scream. Hide. But there’s no place for it.

There is silence between us for a while. I hear him shuffle restlessly above me. He is standing there, still. I don’t have to look to be certain.

I hear a ruffle of